


Attend Not the Blood

by ParadifeLoft



Series: Giftmas 2013 [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Healing, Nargothrond, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/pseuds/ParadifeLoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrimbor discovers Gwindor inside his forge at a strange hour of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attend Not the Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swampdiamonds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swampdiamonds/gifts).



> Happy Giftmas, Swampdiamonds! I know you offered me a choice of prompts, and I was intending to incorporate elements of both since they could certainly have meshed very well, but Gwindor decided to be a stubborn baby on me and trying to get him to do much of anything was like pulling teeth o____o So I hope this is still what you would have wished for n________n And thank you for being patient as well while I wrangled everybody into place. Hope your holidays have been lovely :)

The silence that enveloped him, that carved a hollow unreachable, stone within stone, was breached by the creak of a door. Click of a handle, whine of a hinge; both in reverse, as it shut again. Boots against carved floor - step… step.

They stopped, and the silence suspended him once again.

"Hello?" The voice uncertain, perhaps confused - several more steps, a quick patter like rocks in a mine, coming loose and dropping to the floor.

He opened his eyes, and the dim blue glow of the room diffused - and scattered. Something blocking the light, a dark shape he could see in the sides of his vision, crouching before him. Concern. He would have expected to feel cornered - but he didn't.

"Lord Gwindor?" came the voice again. "Are you alright?"

 

\----

 

_The sleeve of his robe, long and heavy, tugged at his arm. Several layers, all of them, undershirt and tunic and robe, weight and pattern and colour… What was he doing in such finery?_

_A shudder, as the feel of the fabrics crawled against his skin, and Gwindor twitched, mouth going dry as he gazed around him -  intricate carved walls, tapestries embroidered with richly-dyed thread, jewels and finery and a hall full of food. None of it would last, it would all burn around them, burn and rot and tarnish -_

_\- his stomach turned. He should be dressed in much less, threadbare and worn, not so easily trapping the heat and the dust…_

_Gwindor stood, nodding his head with but the barest awareness of what he said. Some polite, hurried nothingness to the lords sitting beside him. Taking his leave. He could scarce stand to sit on his chair's cushion._

_Some compulsion propelled him downward as he walked, wandered, fled, through the halls of the city. Somewhere warm, somewhere hard, unyielding and prone to no comforts. Dark._

_Somewhere nobody would find him._

 

\----

 

Gwindor raised his head and unfolded his limbs. His knees opened, sliding back down to the ground - cold, hard stone and dust and the remnants of sparks and spots and wood shavings left behind in past sweepings. They coated his brocade robes, he considered, more dispassionately than he knew he should.

Celebrimbor kneeled before him, head tilted so that dark ringlets of hair spilled about his shoulders and arms. One hand braced him against the top of his workbench. "Do you… do you need something? Are you alright?" The question again. Alright? No, no, that was not the word he would use.

Even in the forge's gloom, Celebrimbor's eyes were bright. Gwindor entertained, briefly, the fantasy of a glimpse of the Silmarils - two still in the crown, middle one cut away - but that gap only one made to be a lure, wasn't it. He should recognise this, should change his behaviour to better effect once this knowledge made itself known to him. (Did it do any good, to see the folly in what'd he'd once done? No, nobody listened, they all wanted to hope, and he was tossed away when he tried to save them…) But this same lure worked well enough a second time, two lights instead of one - when Celebrimbor stepped away from the bench, bit lip, uncertain twining of his fingers, Gwindor followed.

At least he was able to tolerate the open air, then.

Neither said anything for several minutes - what words did he have? Words were not for thoughts, or feelings; they were each defined use, concrete things, ore down this tunnel, extra food for farther excavation. Nothing here. And Celebrimbor was a silent bird, small flicks of movement in his hands and head and posture, reflexes to take flight on a whim and no particular sturdiness.

Though too, it was Celebrimbor who first broke that silence. But tentative, and apologetic even though it was entirely his right. "Why were you… under my work table?"

Gwindor turned his head and his gaze to the side, with a snort of anger and embarrassment mixed into one.  Yes, how could he forget something so absurd - this was not his own space, but somebody else's, borrowed for temporary reprieve followed by reproach yet again.  He should not have come here.

"I hardly know," he answered. "Why do I do anything?" His lip stung as he chewed at it. "If you'll excuse me to leave, I will stop impinging upon your space and take myself elsewhere that does not involve hiding beneath your desk. My apologies."

Celebrimbor frowned, and shook his head. He looked troubled - but didn't they all? It did not flatter him as it once had. "You are not… impinging," Celebrimbor murmured. "I had only forgotten some papers. If you would prefer to be back under the desk, I - I wasn't trying to tell you I didn't want you there."

"No, I would not _prefer_ to be under your desk," Gwindor said. He tried to laugh, but it came out rather strangled. It would have been bitter even if not.

"Then what?"

Gwindor swallowed, and looked at Celebrimbor. Straight posture, almost a blank expression, but for some slight curiosity, worried. He wasn't… he really _wasn't_ making any judgement. Just waiting to hear what Gwindor might want from him.

As though he even knew what that would be.

He sighed. "Have I ruined good clothing?" Gwindor asked dryly, turning in a slow, awkward circle. Celebrimbor shook his head once he'd finished.

"It can be washed."

Neither spoke for a few moments after. With a small nod at Gwindor, as if to ensure he would not offend, Celebrimbor took the lapse to visit the table opposite. Sounds of shuffling papers came from its surface.

Halfway through, he shot a glance back - perhaps making sure Gwindor had not retreated back under said table? - But no, such was uncharitable of him. And it did not take long for Celebrimbor to return, either, several sheets of schematic diagrams and notes in his hands.

"I was going to return to my rooms now," he said, another small silence later, looking down at Gwindor's shoes as he spoke. "If you would like company you are free to join me."

When he registered what was said, Gwindor frowned. Watching Celebrimbor as he worked, occasionally asking questions of his methods, was one thing - accompanying him to his own quarters seemed something rather different. He would not be some object of pity for one of the few people left in Nargothrond who viewed him, rather than as some unfortunate to duck and avoid if he could help it, with the same sort of mildly perplexed regard as anything else in the city that could not be heated or hammered or bent or carved. He lifted his chin up. "If I desired company and comfort, I would not have been sitting on your forge floor, no?"

He could not quite look the other man in the eye.

And he rather regretted the comment, too, when Celebrimbor cocked his head, watching Gwindor with a furrowed brow. The bright grey eyes hardly helped, either.

"I would not say my rooms are comfortable," he replied after a time. "They are suitable. But I have never bothered to make them lavish." Celebrimbor shrugged and nodded slightly. "As I said, whatever you prefer. The offer is open."

Gwindor thought of his own rooms, filled and empty, _stifling_. The prospect of returning to them now, repulsed him.

"If you wish me there, ask for my company," he said quietly. "I will not follow you because you offer pity."

Celebrimbor blinked. Had he not considered that? "Then yes," he replied, as if it were obvious. "I would like your company."

He wasn't sure what he'd expected. Not, precisely, something so simple as that. And perhaps before, he might have behaved properly - smiled, thanked him. Not ducked his head and taken a step toward the door. Or at least he might have hoped…

Not that it did seem to be a deterrent - of course, what deterrent might there be, if one was not turned away already by what had been whispered (and louder) through the city of him. Yet even hearing Celebrimbor's footsteps as he came to join him, Gwindor jumped, nearly froze, at the hand placed cautiously against his arm.

A beat of his heart; a breath in. Celebrimbor glanced at him, searching, his touch only a slight brush of wind. Gwindor met his eyes, and something stretched between them. Slowly, Gwindor relaxed.


End file.
